The Silver Falcon (6 page)

She turned to the minister and shook hands. Then she spoke to the group of mourners. Her stepson was standing a little apart from them.

‘Thank you all for coming,' she said. ‘You were dear friends of Charles. I hope you'll join me for lunch back at the house.' She came up to Richard. His isolation had not escaped her. ‘Drive up with me,' she said. They walked back to the car together. He offered her a cigarette.

‘I won't,' she said. ‘They taste of nothing at the moment.'

‘You don't mind if I do? I thought you were very brave back there.'

Isabel looked at him. ‘It's what your father would have wanted. He hated fuss. I'm very glad you came, Richard. I'm just so sorry it was too late to see him.'

He had a curious smile, which she saw for the first time. There was a cynical twist to it. ‘I wouldn't worry about that,' he said. ‘I don't think he'd have been pleased to see me. But it was a nice thought. I want you to know I appreciate it.'

They had arrived at the house; the chauffeur opened the door and he got out first. He gave his hand to Isabel and helped her out. They walked up the steps to the entrance together.

By mid afternoon the lunch was over; the buffet was cleared away, Rogers served liqueurs and cigars on a massive silver tray, and people began to say goodbye. Isabel found herself having to talk to her stepson. He wasn't ignored; Charles's friends wouldn't commit a breach of manners, but nobody stayed to talk for long. Andrew and Joan Graham didn't speak to him at all. He didn't seem to mind; he helped himself to food and drink. He stood alone without self-consciousness. Harry Grogan spent some time talking about his father. He had drunk too much and he was becoming maudlin. The disquieting little smile was on Richard Schriber's mouth again as he listened.

Tim Ryan made Isabel sit down. ‘I'm all right,' she said. ‘These are all Charles's old friends. He wouldn't want them hurried away. I can rest after they've gone. Come in and have dinner with us tonight.'

Us. He noticed the word. He didn't know anything about Richard Schriber except that he was a forbidden subject at Beaumont, and if Charles had cast him off, then Tim assumed he had good reason. A man like that would have rejoiced in a good son.

‘Is he staying then?' He looked towards Richard. Grogan was leaning near him, talking hard.

‘Yes,' Isabel said. ‘He flew all the way from England. I've asked him to spend the night. It's the least I can do. You've met him, haven't you – I saw you talking.' She didn't ask him what he thought; he answered the unspoken question.

‘I had a few words with him. He's an odd fellow. Nothing soft about him. I expected some kind of lounge lizard – I don't know what to make of him.'

‘He came as soon as he got my cable,' Isabel said. ‘It should have been sent much earlier. That was my fault, listening to Andy. He had no right to interfere; they might have come together.'

‘Whatever he's feeling,' Tim said, watching him, ‘he isn't showing it. I'll go and get Grogan away from him; he's boring drunk and he ought to go home.'

She went to the front door and said goodbye to the last of the guests; there were emotional embraces and offers of help and friendship. Isabel went back to them. Richard Schriber had a fresh drink in his hand.

‘Tim's joining us for dinner,' she said. ‘I told Rogers to get your old bedroom ready, Richard. I hope you'll find everything comfortable.' He lifted the glass to her in salute.

‘I know I shall,' he said. ‘I was saying to Mr Ryan here, I haven't been made so welcome in my old home for a very long time. In fact I can't remember when. Sleep well.'

She went upstairs and kicked off her shoes; she was suddenly mentally and physically exhausted. The sense of anti-climax after the drama of death and burial made the silence seem oppressive. As oppressive as the atmosphere in the church when she appeared with Richard Schriber. She couldn't get rid of the image of him, standing apart among that group downstairs, a background figure, watching and aloof on his own account, contemptuous of their attempts to make him feel unwelcome. That was what she had sensed in him, and what disturbed her. Contempt. There was arrogance and contempt for them all. But not for her. He was curious about her. She had felt that from the moment she walked into the study that morning.

He hadn't made up his mind how he felt about the stepmother who had taken his own mother's place. And he hadn't given any indication why he had answered that cable by flying all the way from England. To be reconciled with his father – to attend the funeral. Or to see her. Isabel didn't know.

It was the sound of a car on the gravel outside that woke her. She got up and looked through the window. Andrew Graham's blue convertible was parked square outside the front door. She hadn't invited him to call that night. If he had come to lecture her or to embarrass Richard Schriber, then she was going to be very angry. And anger was the last thing she wanted that night. It was a time to try and heal old wounds.

She dressed quickly in a plain black dress which had been one of her husband's favourites, and fastened his anniversary present of three matched rows of pearls round her neck. As she came down the stairs to the hall, she could hear voices coming from the study. Angry voices.

‘Just because your father's gone you think you can walk back here and get away with it! Well you've made one mighty big mistake –' Andrew Graham stood facing Richard Schriber; his face was scarlet and his fists were clenched. He looked ready to hit him. ‘You rotten son-of-a-bitch, coming here, walking into that church. You've no right to show your face at Beaumont! Just because that fool woman doesn't know the truth!'

Richard looked at him over a glass full of whisky. ‘Why don't you tell her? But you're too loyal, aren't you – too much the good friend to dirty the image.… You can go ahead and yell your head off. I'm here and there's damned well nothing you can do about it.'

‘Oh yes there is,' Andrew shouted at him. ‘I've written off to Charles's lawyer and Isabel can get an injunction forbidding you the house! You're not coming back here to start any more trouble –'

‘I got the trouble,' Richard Schriber said. ‘Maybe it's time I made some for you and a few other people around here.'

‘You bastard,' Andrew said, his voice had dropped. ‘One day somebody's going to beat the hell out of you!'

‘Not any more,' Richard said. ‘The last time my loving father laid into me I was sixteen – I told him I'd kill him. He never tried it again.'

‘He didn't do it enough,' the doctor snarled at him. ‘He couldn't make anything of you, whatever he did. And you turned on him when he needed you most.… What kind of a man are you, that you could show up at his grave today! Get out of Beaumont! There's no place for you here, and there's enough of us who loved your father to run you out – don't push us, Richard. You just might get hurt!'

‘You know something – I think you're scared.' He actually smiled as he said it. ‘I'll tell you – I've come out of curiosity. I wanted to meet my stepmother, and I'm going to stay around and get to know her. She seems all right; I'd like to know what she saw in that old bastard apart from his money.…'

‘I'll tell her that,' Andrew threatened. ‘I'll go right upstairs and tell her what you've said. She'll throw you out –'

‘I don't think she'll listen to you,' Richard said calmly. ‘She's a woman with a mind of her own. She thinks I've had a rough deal. She wants me to feel at home. If she tells me to go, I'll go. It's her house now.'

He turned as he spoke and Isabel was standing in the doorway. Andrew saw her and started forward.

‘Now see here, Isabel,' he began, his voice rising, but she held up a hand.

‘Just a moment, Andrew. I must ask you not to shout. I didn't invite you here, you asked yourself. I'm not very happy to hear angry voices in my house tonight. What's been happening – why are you and Richard arguing?'

‘He wants me to leave,' Richard said. ‘He thinks I've forced myself on you.'

‘That isn't true,' Isabel said quickly. ‘I asked Richard to come and I asked him to stay. This is his home as much as mine, Andrew. As far as I'm concerned he's welcome to stay for as long as he likes. You have no right to come here and interfere.'

‘I was your husband's oldest friend,' Andrew said. ‘You're a fool, Isabel. Charles warned you about him –' he gestured angrily at Richard.

‘I am the best judge of that,' she said. Richard came up to her.

‘I can drive down to Kellway and catch a plane to New York. I don't want to upset things here, Isabel. It'd be better if I went.'

‘No,' she said. ‘It would be better if Andrew went. I want you to stay. Good night, Andrew.'

Graham didn't answer; he hesitated for a moment, glaring at Richard and then he turned and hurried out of the room. The door didn't close quietly behind him.

Richard went and poured a drink; he gave it to Isabel.

‘I'm very sorry about all this,' he said. ‘I should never have come back.'

‘Why not?' she turned to him. ‘Why shouldn't you come to see your own father before he dies? Why shouldn't you go to his funeral and stay in your own home! I don't understand any of this – I know things went wrong between you and Charles. But I don't want to be a part of it. I think it's horrible, and I'm only upset because Andrew attacked you like that.… How dare he do it!'

‘He's held a very privileged position in this family,' he answered. ‘Old habits die hard.'

‘I shan't have him here again unless he apologizes,' she said. She sipped the drink and tried to calm herself. The scene had sickened her. She looked up at Richard Schriber. ‘Please forget what happened. There's Tim –' She got up as the door opened. He and Ryan shook hands.

While Isabel gave them a drink, Richard watched the Irishman. He couldn't hide his proprietary attitude to Isabel. She might be his employer, but that wasn't how Tim Ryan saw her. They dined in the huge dining room, gathered round one end of the fifteen-foot table that shone with silver and gold plate.

His stepmother looked very attractive by candlelight; he had a connoisseur's eye for beautiful women, and while she didn't stand comparison with the starlets and models who had trooped through his bedroom in the last few years, she was still very attractive. She was cool and self-contained, which interested him. She made no conscious effort to attract, and he wondered if she even realized that Ryan was in love with her. They were talking about horses; mentally he cut off. Beaumont hadn't changed. He couldn't remember a single occasion, even as a child, when the topic round that dining table had been anything else. The portrait of his father was behind him. His mother's portrait used to hang opposite. She had been very beautiful. She was always associated in his mind with scent and lace and chiffon, except when she was hunting, when she seemed most frail and vulnerable in the elegant dark blue riding habit. She had been brought up to ride side-saddle. He had a permanent memory of her sitting on a big chestnut hunter, whom she once confessed she found a terrifying ride. When he asked her why she did it, she had smiled her nervous smile and said it was because she had to. His father expected it.

‘Richard –' He turned to Isabel.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I was miles away. You were talking about Father's horses –'

‘Silver Dancer's colt; Silver Falcon,' Ryan was explaining. ‘He's the best two-year-old we've got.'

‘I know,' Richard said. ‘He won the Champagne Stakes and the Futurity this year.'

‘Charles believed he was the best colt he'd ever bred. I can't tell you how he loved that horse.' Isabel leaned towards him.

‘I can imagine,' her stepson said.

‘I helped choose his name,' she said. ‘The Silver Falcon. He was almost impossible to break; in the end Tim had to do it. Nobody else could get the roller on him. And Charles couldn't have been more pleased!'

‘He loved spirit,' his son said. ‘In horses.'

‘He believed Falcon would win the Derby,' Ryan said. ‘He's proved he can stay a mile and a quarter with plenty in hand. And we were bloody careful. He hasn't been overdone.' He leaned back and helped himself from the decanter of port, passing it left-handed to Isabel. ‘I know the tendency here is to race two-year-olds hell for leather, and I believe it's ruined more good horses than we'll ever know. I had some pretty tough arguments with your father about it.'

‘I can imagine,' Richard said. ‘Don't tell me you won?'

‘He did,' Isabel said. ‘He persuaded Charles to give Falcon a training run in April, and then the two races only. And he was right. Falcon won the Champagne by three lengths and the Futurity by a length and a half.'

‘Instead of being wrecked, he was improved. His strength hadn't been overtaxed, and he'd enjoyed himself. At that stage in a horse's career it's vital he should associate racing with having a good time. Frank Gill rode him; he was told not to touch him with the whip and he never needed to; he just asked the question of him in the final furlong and that was quite enough. He's a hell of a good horse.'

‘And does all this mean you're going to run him in the Derby, Isabel?' Richard looked at her, his eyebrows slightly raised. ‘You realize you're talking to a compulsive punter, don't you – after all this, you'll get very short ante-post odds.'

‘I never bet,' she said. ‘And I'm not going to do it for myself. It means taking the horse to England and putting him into training there. That was your father's wish. He wanted to win the Derby more than any race in the world. He was living for next June, and then he started to be ill.… And he knew he'd never see it. I promised him I'd run the horse, and I'm going to keep that promise. And he'll run in Charles's colours.'